


improvising

by AnnaofAza



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Friends With Benefits, Jealousy, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Past Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Season/Series 07, endgame Shiro/Keith, oblivious idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-04 15:40:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18346655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: Keith does think—in brief flashes of guilt, even though it’s been years—about Shiro. Wonders if Shiro would be like this—rough and hurried and mostly silent except for the usual sounds of sex. Wonders if Shiro would cradle his cheek, run a hand down Keith’s back, kiss him. Wonders if Shiro would fall asleep beside him, body curled up against his.Or, when Keith returns to Earth, he sleeps with Adam.





	1. Chapter 1

Keith returns back to Earth—not home, not for a long time—and drifts, stumbling in an unfamiliar dance, in a different time.

He goes to endless strategy meetings. Spars and works out in the gym. Eats tasteless Garrison food. Thinks about punching Admiral Sanda. Sits in Black. Tries to keep Hunk’s spirits up. And waits, waits for the ticking clock. The countdown to Sendak. To another battle.

No one seems to notice, wrapped up in their own worries and thoughts, and people cope in their own ways. Hunk stress-cooks and explains various Earth things, from machine parts to sporks, to Romelle. Pidge spends time in the labs with her parents and Allura and Coran. Lance and Veronica hole up in one of their rooms and play video games and scheme how to sneak Kaltenecker into the Garrison. The MFEs roam around the town outside, lounge in the common room, or join Lance and Veronica.

And Shiro…

He trains in the gym. Reads reports in the officers’ lounge. Goes on solitary walks, often by the airfield, by where the Calypso used to be.

It’s during when of these walks when Keith runs into him. Shiro’s in his new officer’s uniform, looking towards the canyons, clear against the sunset, seemingly deep in thought.

Keith calls his name, and Shiro practically jumps, startled, but smiles softly at him. “Keith. It’s good to see you.”

With guilt, Keith’s reminded how much he and Shiro haven’t really interacted since they came back—since a direct contrast to their Garrison days.

“It’s good to see you, too,” Keith says, moving closer, then sighs.

Shiro touches his shoulder. “Are you all right? I know I’ve been in my head a lot, but I want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” Keith lies. He wants to tell Shiro everything—about how being back here makes him feel trapped, younger, less sure of himself. But one look at Shiro—pensive, worried, arms folded—makes him hesitate. Shiro has his own problems; it’s not fair to burden him with another’s. “You?”

“Same,” Shiro says, but less confidently.

The air is filled with so many things Keith wants to say. They haven’t talked, not really, since the clone facility—not even when they were in the same lion. He could tell himself that it was because his mom was there, or that Shiro was still recovering from being put into a clone body, or that it was still too raw to bring up—or too close.

_You found me. I was dreaming. Keith, you saved me._

He wishes he’d kissed Shiro, then, Allura and his mom be damned.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Keith impulsively asks. “Maybe take a bike out?”

Shiro smiles, and for a moment, Keith feels hope rising in his chest, that they could finally talk, be back to what they once were.

“I think I’m going to stay in for tonight,” Shiro says. To his credit, though, he sounds sincere when he adds, “But thanks, Keith. Maybe some other time.”

* * *

It happens after one of those frustrating meetings, where a bunch of Earth higher-ups decide they know better than the actual people who fought the Galra for years, where Admiral Sanda keeps suggesting surrendering the lions, where Sam Holt and Shiro and Allura and the rest of the team talk in circles and explain once _again_ that Sendak is not the type to negotiate fairly.

So, yeah, a drink’s in order.

The local bar scene’s changed since he’s left, but that’s to be expected. There’s less of a club-and-dance vibe, and more of a “drink away your sorrows” mood, which sort of makes sense and suits him fine. He slips in, still in his uniform, and slides onto the nearest barstool, raising his hand. “Hey. I need a drink.”

The bartender glances at him skeptically. “ID?”

Keith sighs. He forgot about this. “I’m twenty-one.”

The bartender only stares at him, and Keith sighs again, rummaging his pockets, which turn up nothing—not like the Garrison gave him an updated ID anyway.

“I’m twenty-one,” Keith repeats, then says, very patiently, “I lived alone in the desert for a year. I can pilot three kinds of fighter planes, an escape pod, a giant flying robot. I saved the world multiple times, in space, fighting the Galra—the same ones that are occupying this planet. So I was a little too busy to update my information.” He leans forward, makes his voice lower. “Give me a _drink_.”

“Not without an ID,” the bartender says, undeterred. Keith groans, almost puts his head down on the sticky countertop, then decides against it.

“Excuse me,” someone says behind him, and Keith turns at the familiar voice, rarely heard, even in the strategy meetings, “I’ll vouch for him.”

The bartender looks startled, but to Keith’s relief, seems to relax at the sight of Adam, also in his uniform. “L—Lieutenant Wagner. I…”

“Don’t worry,” Adam says, waving his hand, then turns to Keith. “What do you want?”

Keith glances at the menu above the bar, scrawled in chalk, then shrugs. “Whiskey. Double.”

“Make that two,” Adam says, sliding a card across the counter.

It doesn’t take them long to find a rhythm of drinking, ordering more, then drinking again, then, as an afterthought, some food so they can keep drinking. Adam doesn’t try to engage him in small talk, for which Keith’s eternally grateful, only interested in chugging away.

Keith’s not sure why Adam’s here. Maybe it was the whole war thing. Maybe Admiral Sanda’s irritated him, too. Or—well, he doesn’t want to think too hard about it.

“So,” Keith finally says, figuring he might as well attempt polite conversation, since Adam is the reason he’s able to drink in the first place, “they recognize you.”

“Luckily for you,” Adam says, clearly not wanting to get into it. “Drinking alone?”

“No one on the team can,” Keith says. _Except Shiro._ And probably Coran, but it seemed weird to ask.

He snatches one of the fries they’re sharing, smothered in chili and cheese and intestinal-clogging ingredients that would make Hunk horrified, but he’s missed this, missed having something substantial to chew after years of space goo—something comforting, familiar, and utterly unhealthy.

“Except Takashi,” Adam says. He waves his hand, orders a round of shots. “It’s…he’s different.”

“We all are,” Keith says, not wanting to get into it. “Except more fucked up.”

Looking surprised, Adam laughs, nearly choking on his fry. “Fair enough.” He reaches for another, then looks at Keith, tilting his head, considering. “You're taller.”

Keith shrugs. “Two years in a quantum abyss would do that.”

The time passes in a bit of a blur—finishing off the fries, sipping at their drinks, exchanging occasional comments about Sanda and aliens and updates. Keith learns that the other countries are messed up, though not as much as America; that the first wave of attacks—Sanda’s orders, again—had been a shitshow; that Garrison’s enrollment is down; that kids have been yanked out; that Adam fell into the role of leading the MFEs; that there’s been a new series of _Killbot Phantasm_. In turn, Keith confirms a few things about aliens, talks a bit about what it’s like to fly a giant robotic lion, mentions a few Blade skirmishes, explains quantum abyss time fuckery, and that they have a cow and nowhere to really put it.

Adam keeps looking at him, and Keith looks at Adam, too—the same cat’s-eye glasses, the square jaw, the bangs just skimming the bridge of his nose. Keith had no trouble recognizing Adam when he’d first stepped out of the Garrison vehicle, but now, Keith sees subtler differences—familiar war-weariness in his eyes, a frown line forming on his forehead, the way he sits straighter—no longer slouching under the weight of a bookbag. And of course, Adam is more muscled—Galra occupation and constant fighting might do that.

Finally, they down the last of the drinks. Adam settles the tab, then offers to walk him back to his room.

And next thing Keith knows, they’re scrabbling against a wall, then backing into his room, kissing and fumbling at each other’s clothes. Keith forgot how irritating the Garrison uniforms are—too many fucking clasps and buttons and a fucking belt, for some reason, around the waist of the jacket—but finally, finally, it drops to the floor with a satisfying rumple, and the rest is easy enough to remove.

Adam tugs lightly at Keith’s shirt—the same black tee he’s worn for, well, years now. It’s the oldest, non-regulation shirt he’s ever worn, and it feels like a small act of rebellion. He hates that fucking cadet uniform. Hates the ugly color, the stiff collar. Hates being put back in this place.

“That might warrant a demerit,” Adam wryly says.

"God, shut up," Keith says, before biting down on his neck. Hard.

Adam curses, then practically rips off Keith’s shirt, flinging it to the ground. Keith stands tall, chin raised—he knows he looks good—and Adam’s fingers trace briefly over his scars before pulling him in, closer, hands slipping up his back, then down to his hips. Keith responds, pressing in, too, pushing Adam’s thighs apart with a knee—and it’s a fast, frenzied rhythm until Adam practically yanks away, just as Keith’s fumbling for Adam’s zipper.

“Wait,” Adam gasps, “I—the Galra invasion. I lost my leg—"

“I don’t care,” Keith says, and he doesn’t. He tugs off Adam’s slacks, and Adam kicks them aside, reaches for Keith’s pants, expertly pulling down the hidden zipper sewn neatly into the fabric, then his underwear, thumbs ghosting over his hipbones. And Adam, without looking up, leans in, taking Keith’s cock into his mouth.

Keith yells, bucks his hips, as Adam holds him in place, tongue sliding over flesh, fingers pressed into his hips. He knows what he’s doing—and Keith can’t help wondering if this is how Adam did this for Shiro, so long ago, locked away in their shared apartment at the Garrison—wonders if Shiro arched as he did, head nearly hitting the wall, hands finding their way into Adam’s hair, calling his name…

And Adam pulls away, kisses him—Keith kisses back, even though the taste of himself isn’t the most pleasant—and tugs him over to the bed. Keith pulls Adam down on top of him, hands roving over raised scars and cool prosthetic and exposed flesh. He’s greedy, he knows, but impatient, and Adam’s the same, touching him like he’s trying to get a quick feel beforehand, like skim-reading a chapter the night before.

Finally, Adam sighs, then takes off his glasses, puts them on the nightstand—and with a brief fumble for the drawer and a probably too-violent ripping open of foil packet—nice to know even the Galra occupation hasn’t stopped production—and almost fucking losing the lube in the tangled sheets—Adam is pushing in with his fingers, prepping him, and Keith’s bucking against them, telling him to fucking _hurry_ , thrashing against the hold Adam has, practically kneeling on his hips. Keith tugs Adam’s hair, hisses words into his neck, rocks in time to the bedframe’s rhythm, until Adam obeys.

Adam’s hands are calloused, dragging across his cheek, as he licks into his mouth, presses him into the bed. His scent’s different from Shiro’s—cologne and alcohol and something that reminds Keith of the Garrison, with its lines of simulators and stacks of textbooks.

Adam knows how to touch him, and Keith digs into Adam’s shoulders, rocks back, head tilted back, eyes clenched shut, closing his mouth against Adam’s shoulder. He touches Adam, too, tugging his hair and reaching down between them to jerk them both off, working in a furious rhythm, Adam breathing heavily, into his ear.

After that, it’s just as rushed—it’s wartime, after all—and Keith closes his eyes, garbles a name he’s not sure is Adam’s, and gives himself to Adam’s hands, Adam’s touch.

* * *

It's not something Keith plans on happening again, but most things in his life are filled with those kind of situations.

Honestly, it doesn’t take much convincing, and no one seems to notice when Adam and Keith leave dinner or another late-night meeting together. It’s easy enough to then slink to either of their dormitories and fuck—sometimes staying, sometimes slipping out during a lag in patrols.

Keith admits this: the sex is good. It’s not relearning each other, exactly, because they never knew each other well enough in the first place. It would be getting to know each other, except that it’s not. It’s more like drinking—drinking enough to get you there, to get you where you need to go, to forget.

He’s not sure whether Adam has done this—or is doing this—with other officers, other people, and doesn’t really care. He doesn’t know if this is because of war or hormones or because they’re just there or a combination of all of these things. He doesn’t even think—what does this mean, what this looks like, how many rules they’re probably breaking—and Adam doesn’t, either.

Keith does think—in brief flashes of guilt, even though it’s been years—about Shiro. Wonders if Shiro would be like this—rough and hurried and mostly silent except for the usual sounds of sex. Wonders if Shiro would cradle his cheek, run a hand down Keith’s back, kiss him. Wonders if Shiro would fall asleep beside him, body curled up against his. 

* * *

“What do you think you’ll do, after all of this?” Adam idly asks, just as Keith’s about to drift off.

Keith shrugs, not bothering to roll over. He guesses this is pillow talk, or the equivalent of it. “I don’t know. If the world doesn’t need Voltron, it’ll be the Blades. You?”

“I don’t know, either,” Adam says. “I guess go back to what I did before—teach and all that. Honestly, I got into the Garrison to pay for college.” Keith’s silent; he never picked this up, never heard it from Shiro or Garrison gossip, never thought to ask. “Sign up, give a few years of your life, go to a university afterwards if you don’t wash out. But I ended up liking it enough to stay. And…I then met Takashi, so.”

“So,” Keith echoes. He knows what that’s like—Shiro coming into your life, not ripping into it like a hurricane, but slipping inside, changing it slowly until it becomes as constant as the sun.

But unlike Adam, Shiro was never his. Couldn’t be. Especially now, especially after everything…

Adam sighs. Keith wonders if he’ll say something else, hopes he both does and doesn’t, but Adam only rolls over, pulling the covers tighter over his body and sleeps, leaving Keith alone in the dark.

* * *

He dreams again, of watching the sun set after a hoverbike race, of sitting at the Castle’s observatory deck, of the coffin-like healing pod—confused, vivid images and sounds that burrow deep into his mind. And more and more come—his bayard slicing through Shiro’s arm, dropping through space clutching Shiro’s hand, his own voice pleading.

Keith wants to wake up, tells himself to _move_ , but the dreams and warmth cocooning him—the blankets, Adam’s stray arm thrown over his waist, his own head buried in a pillow—keep him in, until he hears something shift, a creak, a hand pushing his bare shoulder.

“Adam,” Keith groans, then sits up—to the sight of Shiro in uniform, standing in the doorway with a look Keith can’t read.

He knows it looks...exactly what it looks like—sheets pulled up around his hips, Adam’s glasses on the nightstand. For some reason, his throat tightens; shit, this isn’t the way he wanted Shiro to find out. Or better yet, not find out in the first place.

Beside him, Adam is raising both hands in the air, placating, as if Shiro’s pointing a weapon at them. “Takashi…”

“Don’t,” Shiro hisses. He sounds angry in a way Keith’s never heard, not even when Admiral Sanda tried to ground him from the Kerberos Mission, or when Keith had refused to accept the Black Lion. “What the _hell_. How long has this—this is completely against—you're a lieutenant, while Keith's—"

"A paladin of Voltron," Keith interrupts; he would stand up if he was wearing any clothes. Despite what the Garrison says, or puts him in, he’s not a cadet, hasn’t felt that way since they came back. He tells himself later that this is why his voice comes out, sharp and cutting: “And it's not like this was the first time.”

Shiro freezes, as if he’s been struck, and turns on his heel to leave, slamming the door behind him without another word.

Keith’s still sitting in the bed, feeling strangely vulnerable with the sheets tangled around his hips, his chest bare, an ache in his stomach.

“Well,” Adam says after a long, tense silence. “Fuck.”

* * *

For the next few days, Shiro ignores them.

It gets to the point where the other paladins notice, even Lance, during a meeting, where Shiro didn’t so much as turn his head in Keith’s direction—or Adam's, who has been strangely avoiding him since that morning.

But it’s Hunk who approaches Keith, sipping at stale coffee in the lounge, avoiding eye contact with everyone in the room.

“Hey,” Hunk says, “what’s going on with you and Shiro?”

“Nothing,” Keith lies. “It’s just…the war, everything that’s going on.”

Hunk sighs, crosses his arms. “Keith. You helped me when I was down about my family. I just…want to do the same for you.”

Keith finally looks up, oddly touched. But he doesn’t know where to begin, what to say. Start from the beginning, that’s what everyone says—but where? The facility? Adam? Before all of this? He can’t imagine getting through a sentence without Hunk freaking out.

“It’s…complicated,” Keith says. “But I guess, just…being on Earth, after everything.”

Hunk nods. “We were the screw-ups when we left, right? And coming back…we’re kind of heroes. But we’re still treated like cadets.” He gestures to their matching orange uniforms with a grimace. “I don’t know. It’s weird. So much has changed.”

“Yeah,” Keith agrees. He looks at Hunk, wondering not for the first time what would have happened if Shiro hadn’t come back, if they didn’t become paladins. Or if the Kerberos Mission never happened in the first place, if his and Shiro’s futures hadn’t been thrown off-track. “There’s no going back, is there?”

“Well, the only way is to move forward, right?” Hunk says, with a shrug. “And maybe after this is all over, it’ll be easier.”

“Hopefully,” Keith mutters.

* * *

Finally, Shiro asks, "So. Are you…together?”

“No,” Keith says shortly, looking away from the hospital table. He crosses his arms, wishing nothing more than to disappear. “It doesn’t really mean anything.”

"Anything," Shiro repeats, as if he thinks Keith's lying. He stares at his new Altean arm, seemingly interested in nothing else. 

Keith shrugs. He's glad everyone's left at this point, wonders if _anyone_ knows, or suspects a thing. He hopes not. “I guess we like each other well enough, but it’s not like we’re getting married or anything.”

Immediately, he wishes he’d bitten his tongue; Adam and Shiro _were_ going to get married, after all, before Kerberos. “I mean,” he tries again, but Shiro cuts him off.

“I get it,” Shiro says, with a thin smile, but it doesn’t sit right on his face. 

_You would have married Adam,_ Keith realizes. _You would have been happy. And it would hurt, but not this much. I would have let you go._

But the next day, when Keith falls from the sky, plummeting thousands of feet to Earth, as always, he thinks of Shiro.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s difficult, looking at Adam these past few days, and even harder to look at Keith.

Adam and Keith. Adam and Keith. Adam and Keith. Shiro can’t quite picture it, even though he’d seen them, tangled underneath the sheets, startled and sleepy-eyed—Adam wary, Keith defensive.

He hasn’t thought about Adam in that way, not really. He would be lying if he said he hadn’t idly considered it, but Shiro had accepted long ago that it was over for them. They’d loved each other, been closer than anyone at the Garrison, even closer than Shiro had been to anyone before Keith, before Voltron. They’d talked about marriage, even speculated about buying a house, but never too in-depth; there was the possibility of Kerberos and other missions after that, of Shiro’s dwindling future.

But now…

Had it been Keith’s first? Had he taken the lead, or allowed Adam to? Adam liked that; Shiro still remembers the way heat would pool in his belly when Adam would take off his glasses and place them carefully on the nightstand, then slowly turn to Shiro with a glint in his eye.

And Keith—did he like being held down, the way Adam used to tease everything out of him, honest and bold, as always? Did he like the way Adam bantered, made Shiro laugh breathlessly between moans? Did he like the way Adam’s hands tightened around his hips as he swallowed down cock—did Keith arch away, throw his head back, close his eyes—

Keith, who fills out the cadet uniform, all muscle and sharp edges. Keith, with his messy hair that was never regulation-perfect and eyes that rivaled any supernova. Keith, with his unrelenting loyalty, with his heart he never liked to wear on his sleeve.

And he’s Adam’s. They’d never really interacted with each other, not really, and Shiro doesn’t know if that changed when he left. To be fair, he understood why, even at the time. Their paths simply didn’t cross, and when they did, it was when Adam was either Keith’s instructor or Shiro’s boyfriend and never anything more.

Now, they are. And he has to accept that.

* * *

Shiro’s seen Adam in Keith’s hospital room, wonders if Adam’s reliving the long hours in waiting rooms, in rooms with its stale antiseptic and clipboards and red call button.

He’d learned, Shiro knows, of the tightrope Shiro walked, and the end—always the end—looming like a shadow. Of the determination—desperation, really—of the milestones to cover before it all ran out: first kiss, first date, first school dance, first graduation, first mission, first everything.

But the idea of falling apart, slowly, repulsed Shiro. He kept imagining Adam, good and patient Adam, moving them from their apartment to a house with wide hallways and low countertops. Spoonfeeding him meals ground up in a blender. Transitioning from his boyfriend to his nurse. And himself—speaking through a computer, if he could, like the famed 21st century scientist, limbs limp and disobedient. Wasting away. Readying himself to die.

There had been other factors in their slowly deteriorating relationship; Kerberos had been the catalyst. But Shiro knows now that he’d purposefully pulled away from Adam, little by little. He continued to make himself into the perfect pilot, the golden boy of the Galaxy Garrison; his death would be a tragedy, yes, it always has been—but he’ll be known and remembered for _this_ , not being some dying, sick man.

The clock was ticking. And one day, Shiro thought, it’ll be over.

Now, it’s not, but Keith is the still one who may outlive him, and not because of an illness. Not living out a natural, normal life.

_Critical condition. Worse off than the others. Still unconscious._

Every day, Shiro steals to Keith’s room. Whispers his name, smooths back his hair, tells him to keep fighting. That Allura is awake, that Pidge and Hunk and Lance are, too. Doesn’t he want to see them? Doesn’t he want to wake up? And for hours, Shiro kneels on the cold floor, head pressed against the edge of the bed with its neat corners, hand on Keith’s. 

* * *

He still sees Sam and Veronica and Coran standing up in Atlas, volunteering to retrieve their loved ones. All of them, wrecked. All of them, not daring to say it was over. All of them, hoping they’d find them alive.

And Adam, in his ear, telling him to get in his plane. To go to Keith.

Keith, on the floor of his lion, blood pooling from his cracked helmet. Keith, breathing shallowly, painfully, with bubbles in his throat. Keith being scooped up in Adam’s arms, then being placed on a gurney, Shiro only standing there—useless, paralyzed, hands trembling.

The stale cups of coffee. Adam’s hand on his shoulder. Shiro pulling away. _Don’t._

* * *

Krolia lets him know that they’re coming as soon as they can. Shiro thanks her, and signs off, trying to keep himself together.

The others are still confined to bedrest, but they have a flurry of visitors every day. Shiro can hear the laughter and chatter ringing out from the hallways, and sometimes, he’s in the middle of that, just thinking, _Wake up, wake up, wake up._

* * *

He’s sent to meetings, to mostly plan the memorial, and he hates them all—hates the speech he keeps writing and rewriting on his datapad that's due to be reviewed tomorrow, hates the slowly-ticking clock, hates the way Adam keeps looking at him. Hates the way Adam can move on, keep his voice at a steady volume and pace, can think about things other than Keith, still not awake.

Shiro knows Adam’s visited a handful of times, and he’s quietly furious, simmering that Adam isn’t there with Keith. He should be spending every hour with Keith. Every minute. Every second.

It all culminates when Shiro sees Adam that afternoon, heading over to the Garrison gym, and has the nerve to tell him to rest, then, “There’s nothing you can do.”

It’s true, but Shiro still snaps, “I don’t believe that. I might not be connected to Black anymore, but if I could reach him again—even if I’m just there, reading some stupid reports, he should know that I’m there.” He rubs at his eyes, swollen and probably ringed with dark circles. “His mother hasn’t arrived yet. He has _no one_.”  

“He doesn’t,” Adam says quietly. He pushes up his glasses. “Takashi—”

“Don’t,” Shiro says stiffly. “It’s Shiro, now. Captain, if you want to be formal.”

Adam frowns. “Is that how it is now? How it’s going to be, between us?”

“What’s between us?” Shiro crosses his arms. “There’s nothing.” _Not like you and Keith._

“No, but there was something.” Adam looks at him, with that steady, penetrating gaze. “After Kerberos, you don’t think I mourned you? You don’t think I went to your funeral and tried to hold it together for the entire day? For months? I thought you were dead, and that doesn’t go away easily.” He takes a deep breath. “Keith took it harder. And I see the way he looks at you—like you still might disappear any moment. Don’t be an idiot.”

Then, not for the first time, Adam walks away, and Shiro watches him go, wanting to call after him, snap at him, but instead turns and heads over to Keith’s room.

* * *

Shiro tries to write his speech, Keith breathing softly in the quiet room. _Today is a solemn day,_ he begins. He’s stuck on that line, knows he needs the right note of optimism and hope, but he can’t make himself do more. Think more. Because this memorial might be Keith’s, too.

What would he say, about Keith? What could be said? _He was—was…_

Shiro puts down his datapad, cradles Keith’s hand. “Keith,” he whispers.

_Today is a solemn day._

“You are willing to sacrifice everything to keep the world safe,” Shiro says, voice still hushed. “You are strong and brave and good-hearted. Without you, Earth would be lost. And me.”

He swallows. _Paladin of Voltron. Blade of Marmora. Defender of the universe._  “The world needs you, Keith. Earth needs you. _I_ need you.” He can feel the back of his throat swelling, tears rising in his eyes. “I need you to wake up. I don’t know if you can hear me, but I need you to. We’re connected. We’ve seen each other at our best, at our worst, on Earth, in space. In Black’s consciousness.”

Shiro squeezes Keith’s hand, tighter. Leans in. Presses his forehead against his, feels his chest rise and fall. “I died, Keith. But you brought me back. You saved me. And now, you’re going to live. I know you will. You’ll fight, like you always do.”

Quieter, now. “Please.”

* * *

He falls asleep at Keith’s bedside.

* * *

"Shiro."

 _Keith._ Shiro's heart seizes in his chest, but when he opens his eyes, Keith's still lying in the bed, unresponsive, eyes closed. Instead, it's Adam, kneeling beside him in the darkness, hand on Shiro's shoulder. "Shiro, you need to get up. The speech. Memorial's tomorrow." 

"I don't care," Shiro says blankly, but raises his head, hand still covering Keith's. He has a duty, he reminds himself, as captain. As if it means anything now. But he must go on. Keith would want that. Keith would want him to survive. To live. But Shiro can't, not without him. Not in the same way. He's been an idiot, as Adam said, and of course, he realized it after everything seems like it'll be taken from him. "I don't," he repeats. 

"Then I'll write it. Let me do this," Adam insists, reaching for Shiro's datapad. "So you can stay with him." 

Shiro looks at him, blearily, and sees nothing but sincerity in Adam's face. He's too tired to fight any longer. "No," Shiro decides, "we'll write it together." 

They sit on the floor, Adam typing steadily, Shiro's voice rusty, legs close together in the dawning light.  _Today is a solemn day..._

"Today, we look back at the lives that have been lost," Adam prompts.

"And the sacrifices that have been made here on Earth and across the universe." Shiro closes his eyes. Keeps holding onto Keith. "It truly feels like a light has gone out in our lives and the sun itself couldn't reignite it." The words come out slowly, faintly, but they come. "There isn't...isn't anyone, one of us, here today that, who...Who hasn't experienced the tragedy of losing someone. Someone close."

And he can't continue. 

"How about..." Adam thinks, then his fingers move across the screen. "Switch those sentences. And then,  _But that light, that fire, has not gone out..."_

Eyes still closed, Shiro nods. "Yeah. A metaphor. Symbol? The Garrison loves those." Beside him, Adam laughs, softly, if a bit uncertainly. "Okay. A light...fueled by memories. Those we lost."

He's never given a speech like this; it's always been reaching for the stars, becoming who you're meant to be, the usual Garrison pep talk. This is his first funeral speech. He wonders if Adam's thinking of his. Or the ones during the Galra occupation. How many had he attended, since then? They never attended one in space. Haven't lost anyone like that, or had a body to bury. He wonders if Adam's had experience writing these, had to put these words down, to wrap wounds and try, try to find something everyone else could hold onto.

"Those we lost," he repeats. "And then...we...press on? Keep going?" 

"Move forward," Adam suggests, and Shiro nods. "Sounds right to me." 

They soon finish the rest of the speech, and Shiro sighs, watching Adam turn off his datapad, begin to stand. "Thanks." 

"No," Adam says, "you don't have to thank me for anything." He looks at Shiro, then touches his shoulder. "I'm going to show this to Iverson. And if he asks, I can't find you. Deal?" 

Faintly, Shiro smiles. "Deal." 

And he lays his head back down, down by his and Keith's entangled hands. 

_Together, we hold strong, as defenders of the universe._

* * *

The next day, Keith wakes up. 


	3. Chapter 3

After that, Adam goes with Shiro to memorials, to hospitals, to rebuilding projects, to more speeches. Shiro hasn’t changed in wanting to do everything himself—Adam both loves and loathes it—but Adam’s not going to let him dig himself into an early grave. (Again.)

It’s also a bit of relief to talk to someone he doesn’t have to command, someone the same age at least; Adam wonders what it was like, being up there with a bunch of teenagers. Defenders of the universe, sure, but he sees Lance shooting moony glances around the Altean princess, Hunk and Pidge getting into a food fight in the Garrison kitchen, the MFEs wandering around like a pack during swap meets. They’re kids, really, and after the war—well, they can go back to doing that.

“If they can,” Shiro says, during one of their late night cram sessions. It’s almost like the old days, mugs of cold coffee and bags of smuggled chips and energy bars, notes and datapads littering every surface of the room. “But they’re tough. They can see the end.”

“Can you?” Adam asks, while absentmindedly going through tomorrow’s agenda. They’re booked up to the gills; Shiro’s voice is starting to give out from all these circuit speeches. “Do you have any plans when this is all over?”

Shiro pauses. It looks as if he hasn’t even considered the possibility. “I don’t know,” he admits.

“You need to start figuring it out because you can’t always live like you’re fighting in one,” Adam retorts, taking a sip of his coffee. It makes sense, thinking back to those speeches, especially the first one they wrote together. Hell, Adam’s been in war, yes, but Shiro—how long has he lived like it was going to be his last day on Earth?

His whole life, Adam thinks.

“I never expected to live long,” Shiro says, confirming Adam’s thought. He then lowers his voice. “This isn’t even my body. It’s a clone’s.” At Adam’s raised eyebrows, Shiro adds, “It’s a long story. But the point is…I don’t have to live on borrowed time anymore, and I’m not used to that.”

“It’s not a relief?”

“I’m not sure,” Shiro admits, then turns back to the papers.

Adam lets it go, moving back to his own work. He and Shiro seem to be on better terms, which is good, considering that the last time his ex-boyfriend was on Earth, they’d avoided each other like the plague—and more recently, he’d been threatened to be thrown out of an airlock. That, or stabbed by a Galra secret agent—Shiro didn’t seem too particular.

He’s been turning it all around in his head, and it adds up. The way Shiro looked as if he’d been punched when he saw them together. The way Shiro endlessly, steadily visited Keith during the coma. The way Shiro pulled him aside after a meeting, Altean hand squeezing his bones, hissing, _You better not hurt him. He’s been through enough._

 _I know we left things in a bad place, but what kind of monster do you think I am?_ Adam had retorted.

Shiro looked away, then. _I just know that you can hurt the people you love the most._

* * *

Shiro’s back from visiting Keith, yet again. 

According to Shiro, Keith was doing well—going crazy about staying on bedrest, but otherwise okay. He wants to get up, help with rebuilding, fly out to stop Honerva, do something besides sit and watch the world move on without him. _I’ll sleep when I’m dead,_ he’d told Shiro, and Adam could tell Shiro had not liked that at all, even with his own morbid sense of existential humor.

“Then, he says, even after, there’s so much work to be done,” Shiro adds. Adam subtly checks his datapad; he’s been going on like this for the past ten minutes. “The Galra have been ruling for ten thousand years. In our lifetime, it probably won’t be solved.”

They’re a lot alike, Adam thinks.

“So?” Adam says. “What’s the point of fighting for Earth if you’re removed from it?”

Shiro opens his mouth. Closes it. Then, softer, “You’ve said that for as long as I’ve known you. When we—” He takes a deep breath, clearly steeling himself. “Do you love him?”

Adam considers treading carefully, but if it’ll get Shiro’s head out of his ass, so be it. “No,” he says bluntly. “I don’t. And he feels the same.”

Shiro looks at him. Adam sighs, remembering how many late-night simulation runs it took for Shiro to get that it was more than piloting practice. Shiro could skim-read chapters the morning before class and still get a curve-throwing grade, but as Matt used to say, his smarts eliminated other human capacities.

“How do you know?” Shiro asks.

Adam pats him on the shoulder. “It wasn’t my name he was screaming the first night.” And he leaves, to the glorious sound of Shiro’s sputtering.

* * *

Keith noticeably brightens at the sound of footsteps, but when he sees Adam in the doorway, he slumps back against the pillows—some, Adam notices, are of a higher caliber than the paper-thin hospital ones.

“Oh,” he says bluntly. “It’s you.”

Adam rolls his eyes. “Were you expecting someone else?”

Keith glares at him. “No,” he says, but it’s painfully clear he’s lying; Adam doesn’t know how he managed to be part of some underground spy group for years.

“Shiro’s doing more leader-y stuff, shaking hands and kissing babies and sweeping up the streets.” Adam sits down on the chair beside the bed. “But after that, he’s coming over to fluff your pillow and feed you soup and rub your feet.”

Keith flushes. “What exactly are you getting at?” He sounds so like the spitfire skinny sixteen year old Adam remembers that he has to resist the urge to smirk.

“Nothing,” Adam says, too casually. Then, “You know, he cares for you.”

“Yeah,” Keith says archly, “as the kid he took under his wing long ago.”

“Bullshit. Maybe you did always third-wheel us—”

“Did not.”

“But you’re not a kid.”

“Good. Because that would make those last few weeks even more awkward.”

It’s now Adam’s turn to glare, and Keith relents: “Fine. Sorry.”

“What I’m saying is—he doesn’t think of you as a kid,” Adam says. “I heard the way he talked about you, about you and him.”

“Shiro and I,” Keith says, words sounding foreign on his tongue, then repeats, “Shiro and I. We’re not what you think. Never were. Never had a plot to steal him away from you, even though you were a goody two-shoes. I used to joke that your favorite activity was sitting in sweaters and reading the Garrison handbook for fun.”

Adam rolls his eyes. “For your information, I’ve only done that once.” A long, unamused look is all he gets from Keith. “That was a joke.”

“Didn’t know you could make them,” Keith says, rolling his eyes.

“And I didn’t know you were this obtuse,” Adam retorts.  

He decides to switch tactics. “You know, I think everyone at some point has been jealous of Shiro. Perfect grades, perfect flying, perfect everything—handsome, too. I was, too.” Adam chuckles. “For the first year, I hated him. It was like he never had to try. I thought, _there is never something that he’ll want. It’ll just be given to him_.” Keith’s listening, for once, so Adam keeps going: “Later, of course, I came to my senses. But my cadet self would be rubbing his hands together and laughing—because that morning, for, the first time, I saw Shiro, jealous of _me_.”

Adam looks Keith in the eye, daring him to turn away, or blink. “Because I was the one with you.”

Several emotions pass through Keith’s eyes. Confusion. Surprise. Doubt. Hope.

Keith blinks. “You’re breaking up with me, aren’t you,” he says, deadpan.

Adam sighs, pats his arm. “Just tell Shiro I did it gently so I don’t get thrown out of an airlock. Or stabbed by your super-assassin mother.”

“Any reason why I need to stab you?”

This time, it’s the right one at the door: Shiro, in his captain's uniform, holding a bag of illicit fast-food in one hand, looking the way he did when he first got accepted for the Kerberos mission, determined and excited and nervous all at once.

He's ready to face the unknown. Ready to be brave. 

Adam raises his hands, rises from his seat—not that Keith waves good-bye or anything; he only has eyes for Shiro. “You have a lot to catch up on,” he only says, then makes his exit.

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure if this is a companion piece/continuation of [this fic.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17695535) Either way, there's more after this.


End file.
